


In Parallel

by FamousWolf



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamousWolf/pseuds/FamousWolf
Summary: While everyone finds their reasons to fight, Vincent spends his last night before Meteorfall indulging his whims.  But when a chance encounter repeats itself, fate ensures that the dust never truly settles.This work prominently features one original female character.This is a reworking of a piece I wrote in 2012, called Parallel Paths.  The original (and its companion works) is still available on FanFiction.net, under the author name LadyRudo.
Kudos: 7





	1. Last Meal

_"You can't fight without a reason, right? So, I won't hold it against you if you don't come back."_

  
The words echoed in his mind as he approached the entrance to the top plate of Midgar. He knew he would go back. He would fight alongside the people who pulled him from his slumber. Perhaps misplaced loyalty was to blame. Perhaps the sense of camaraderie everyone had been mentioning was creeping in under his cloak.  
He shook off these thoughts as he navigated the bustling streets of a dying city. The slums had been evacuated, but much of the upper level, the upper class, had refused to believe in the threat of destruction.

"If I'm going to die, I'm going to do it in the comfort of my own home! I'm not going down with a bunch of strangers, huddled together in a basement," he heard one man in a double-breasted suit telling another as they passed, one nearly bumping his shoulder without acknowledgment. “And I’m certainly not leaving my property at the hands of the looters that will no doubt crawl out..."

As he attempted to slide through the streets unnoticed, he silently prayed that his destination still existed. It had been thirty-one years since he'd last been there, but the place was a Midgar legend, unlikely to go down easily.

He turned a rain-slicked street corner and sighed in relief. Grey Haus stood before him, smelling of buttered steak, steamed vegetables, and decadence. His eyes closed briefly as he inhaled the aroma of the upscale restaurant, memories of countless meals eaten both alone and with fellow Turks of the past flooding his senses. The images of the Turks of old rapidly transformed into the haunting images of the new Shinra elite: Tseng, Rude, Elena, Reno. His brow furrowed as he opened his eyes and continued into the restaurant.

It had changed very little in the last thirty years. The walls were a new dark red, the floor still shiny black marble. The tables were still dark wood, decorated with single candles, as silver hanging lamps poured pools of light onto the centers of the tables, leaving the patrons in shadows.  
He scanned the dining area quickly, and found the corner booth in the rear of the building that was once reserved only for Turks, which, more often than not, meant him and him alone. It was unoccupied.  
"Hello, and welcome to Grey Haus, sir," a young Wuitaian woman greeted him, thick northern accent lilting her words. Her dark hair shimmered in the low light. "How many?"  
"One."  
She raised her eyebrows involuntarily, but quickly smiled the expression away. After collecting a single menu, she guided him toward the dining room.  
"I wondered if that table was available," he commented, pointing with his right hand, so as not to draw any more attention to himself. Patrons were already sizing him up. He’d done his best to run his fingers through his mess of long hair; he’d bought a small sewing kit for his tattered cloak and lost it in an attack on the Highwind before he could use it; the metal plating of his boots clacked with each step. He was visibly armed.  
Most diners quietly disapproved, even while shielded from his most frightening feature by the deep red cape.  
"Of course!" the hostess chirped, and she quickly led him to the back, glad to be hiding him away from the majority of the restaurant.

As he waited for his meal to arrive, he stared at the candle on his table. Images of old friends, long dead or retired, seeped into his mind. He recalled his first experience at this very restaurant as a new Turk.  
 _"I've heard of this place. This is where the Shinra host their annual Christmas party."_  
 _His partner smiled and nodded emphatically. "Best place for steak on the top plate! They have a reserved table for us and everything. We get taken care of here, man."_  
 _"I don't think I can afford this. I haven't even gotten my first paycheck."_  
 _His blond partner let out a laugh and put a heavy arm around his thin shoulders. "Live a little. I'll pick up the check; you can pay me back."_  
Just as he closed his eyes to let himself reminisce, the image of his blond mentor began to darken. A gunshot sounded in his mind, and his partner lay dead on a street. Frustration crept in as he failed to recall the name of the street, or even the sector where his partner's death occurred. Before he could think of a more pleasant image, the face blurred, an oversaturated watercolor. It reformed into familiar face, lying slain in the street: Cloud Strife.  
His eyes snapped open and refocused on the candle, ears tuning into the low jazz playing over the restaurant. As he picked up his glass of red wine, he reminded himself that he did not come here to worry. For that, there would soon be time. Indeed, there would soon be time for little else.

Satisfied, he slid his half-eaten meal toward the edge of the table and leaned against the back of his leather booth. As he ran his finger around the base of a newly filled glass, the low thrum of anxiety had temporarily quieted, leaving room for a new sensation: that of being watched.  
By now, he was accustomed to having eyes on him in public places. His appearance simply drew attention. However, this attention usually came in the form of quick glances and hushed whispers, not full-fledged, outright staring. His eyes flitted around the room, finding no source for the tingling feeling in his spine. When this failed, he disguised his attempt to find the eyes behind a drawn-out sip of wine.  
 _There_.  
A woman sitting alone at the small bar raised her eyebrows at him from behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. She turned and briefly spoke with the bartender, pointing at the once Turk-exclusive table. Then, to his surprise, she stood, adjusted her long black sleeves, and headed straight for him.  
He stiffened as she approached the table with a half-smile pulling at her lips.  
"This seat taken?" she asked lightly.  
Stretching to sit as tall as possible, he remained silent. She was not leaving. He narrowed his eyes slightly as she sat down across from him.

"Last meal?" she asked, while eyeing his half-eaten dinner.  
"Of sorts." He remained on guard. Shinra walked this city in all forms.  
"Yeah. Same here," she thoughtlessly added. A new waitress arrived at the table with two stout glasses of clear liquor.  
He analyzed her posture, facial expressions. She was genuinely at ease, far more so than anyone else who might sit this close to him.  
"So, Vincent Valentine. Big day tomorrow. What’s the plan for tonight?"  
"How do you know my name?" he asked, fingers resting on the butt of his pistol, claws stretching out on his thigh.  
"Oh, now," she started, as she pushed a glass toward him and took one for herself. She raised the glass halfway to her lips. "There's a good chance we're all dying tomorrow. Surely you have some plan for your last night," she said, downing her drink in one swallow. “I mean, beyond picking at your dinner.”  
"I don't know how you..." he started. She interrupted his thought.  
"I'm a Turk."  
Beneath the table, he drew his gun and aimed it directly at her left leg, pressing its muzzle against her kneecap. She sat up straight and tilted her head.  
"…And I’m retiring. Quitting. Walking out. So long. Sayonara.” When he did not respond, she continued.  
“Reeve Tuesti. Friend of yours?"  
He lowered the gun and nodded.  
"Mine too. He's already out of Shinra. Free to go. Doubt I’ll be so lucky. Then again, if _you're_ not lucky tomorrow, what does it matter…" she said with a noticeable bitterness.  
He glanced around the restaurant as she spoke.  
"These poor people have no idea what's about to happen. They _should_. God knows we've been trying to warn them. But it's easier to believe the media is somehow making this up for monetary profit. These suits don't part with their money easily. While you've been out gallivanting, evacuation attempts have proved virtually futile up here. Idiots."  
" _You're_ still here," he remarked.  
She laughed a single, smooth laugh. "Touche. I'm on my way out, though. I had to enjoy one last fillet before I left Midgar forever! Juno, this chef, is a genius." She smiled to herself, and he noticed a quick flicker of concern on her brow. "Though also, apparently, an idiot, too." A quick sigh prefaced her goodbye. 

"Well, good luck tomorrow. I hope that robot pulls its weight, for once," she remarked, starting to rise from her seat.  
"Wait."  
She reclaimed her spot, resting her elbows on the edge of the table. Her dark brown hair was pulled tight into a braid that fell over her shoulder as she leaned on her arms.  
"Who are you?" he asked, knowing better than to expect a straight answer from a Turk.  
"Well, that's complicated." _Of course it is_ , he thought. "Today, I'm Penelope Marx. Tomorrow, I haven't decided."  
"You're leaving Shinra. Why?" he inquired quietly but forcefully.  
She smirked and cocked her head to the right. "Are you serious? Look at what they've done. When did you join AVALANCHE, again? 'Cause Reeve told me you were up to date..." she joked. 

He saw himself frown in her lenses.  
"Why now? Why not months ago, when this started?"  
"Ah. Good question, simple answer: money," she responded.  
He shook his head dismissively.  
"Of course you think that's heartless. But I have a family that needed the help. And sure, there are plenty of jobs around this place. Why stick it out with the blue-eyed devil?” Her sarcastic joviality faded, and as far as he could tell, she looked him dead in the eye.  
“You were one of us. How many Turks did you see retire? Leave the company gracefully? Or even on their own two feet?" she asked. "You don't leave the Turks. The Turks leave you. In an alley, at the bottom of a river, in your own apartment," she spat, alluding to a violent story he hadn't been around to hear. Even without the details, it rang true.  
"So you think they'll come after you?"  
She said nothing.  
"It seems unlikely. Shinra is weak right now. I doubt they have the resources to spare to chase after a single rogue," he said, unsure if he was trying to comfort her or simply make her leave his table again. She shrugged her shoulders, and he felt as if he was missing something again.  
"And who would want to? Rufus is dead; there is no leader. Shinra is crumbling." At this, she raised her head. Vincent knew immediately he’s stricken something. She would not elaborate, though.  
"Well, either way, I'm leaving. I have a hometown, people who miss me. And I want to see them again, one more time. And honestly, there is no better night. Do you know what today is?" she asked, a new excitement in her voice.  
"I've lost track," he admitted.  
"Today is the first day of Harvest."  
He pulled his head back and repressed a groan. This holiday had not been meaningful since before Midgar was built. There were no more farmers in the area. "Who celebrates that?"  
"True, it's a dying tradition around here." She scanned the restaurant filled with seemingly angry men and the women who tolerate them for their money, and she laughed. "Everything seems to be. But it's a huge celebration in my town. Music, games, dancing, fireworks. Entirely too much drinking. What else could a girl ask for at the end of the world?"  
He felt an invitation coming.  
"So, you just sit here are sulk, and think of me dancing my ass off under the midnight moon." She reached out to touch his arm, caught him pull back slightly, and stopped herself. Instead, she pulled her black sleeves back over her arms. As she did so, he recognized the gold piping on the top she wore as the uniform of an Officer. She would have ranked even above Tseng. _Of course she's worried about assassination_ , he thought. _She's in too deep, even for times like these_.  
"Good luck, again," Penelope remarked, and headed back to the bar. Vincent watched her grab the trademark navy blue suit jacket from an old coat rack. As she pulled the jacket on he caught glimpse of a gold pin on her lapel. _Gaia, she was a Legend_. He had heard that the ranking was obsolete now, but it had once merited great respect. Turks climbed no higher.  
She slid three coins across the bar to the bartender, a man she seemed to know well. They exchanged farewells and Penelope headed for the door, removing a keychain from her pants pocket.

It was hardly surprising that he was left with an airy desire to follow this force to her rambunctious hometown; it had to have been what she wanted. Vincent quickly weighed his options. Following her meant abandoning his plan for peace and reflection on what might be his last night alive. But as the door closed behind her, he knew that peace would not come, no matter his choice. 

Before he walked away from his table, he turned back and picked up the glass she'd ordered for him. A single sip ignited a flicker of energy through his chest, and he had to exhale through his mouth to expel its fumes. He shook his head at himself as they lingered in his throat all the way to the door. 


	2. Lunar Purity

The sun was beginning its descent behind the mountainous walls of the Cosmo area. Vincent avoided watching it from the backseat of an Intercontinental taxi, the driver of which he had paid well to inconspicuously follow a certain green motorcycle.  
"Stay back," he ordered the driver, as they watched Penelope park her vehicle at the base of the entrance to Cosmo. Through the closed windows of the car Vincent could hear music playing in the town. Penelope ascended the stairs and vanished into the village. Only then did Vincent pay the rest of the fare and order his driver to return in the morning for a trip to the Northern Continent.  
The village was ablaze with celebration. There were five campfires burning instead of the single fire he'd seen before. Musicians meandered through the grounds playing upbeat tunes to which villagers danced fanatically. Most were dressed in short sleeves and sleeveless tops, short pants and skirts, showing off their bronze and golden skin.  
"Mr. Valentine! I never thought I'd see you again!"  
Vincent turned his head sharply, finding a young man standing behind him with a broad smile on his face. It was the same man who had welcomed him weeks before, when he, Cloud, and Nanaki had come to discover Bugenhagen's failing health.  
"You must have come to join the Harvest celebration! Is everyone here with you?" the young man asked excitedly.  
"I'm afraid I'm alone, this time," Vincent replied, without the heart to tell him that the rest were preparing for a battle from which they may not emerge.  
"Oh. ...Well, please, make yourself at home. A friend of Nanaki is a friend to us all. I'd book a room with Cherro first. Her inn fills up quickly at Harvest time!"  
"I'll do that. Thank you," he responded quietly. Watching his surroundings carefully, he headed up the familiar steps to the inn. The setting sun was surprisingly hot on his back.

The room was small but comfortable, decorated in imitation Ancient Cosmo artwork. On the dresser lay two sets of what he determined to be "Harvest" wear: one smaller and one larger fit of creamy sleeveless top, a pair of breezy cotton pants, and a tan skirt with red flowers decorating the hem. There were several strings of flowers for necklaces and bracelets, headbands and belts.

  
Vincent looked himself over in a mirror, then glanced out his window and down at the revelers below. He removed his cape and folded it tightly on the bed. Then he removed his black glove, setting it atop the cape. Off came the golden sabatons from his boots in two quick motions, and finally, he unwound his headband in response to the heat of the Canyon sun. Rolling up his one long black sleeve, he considered himself festive enough, and walked out the door.  
Upon stepping out onto the sandy ground, he heard the familiar voice.  
"Jovan! Callie! Aren’t you supposed to be in training?!" he heard Penelope shout over the music.  
His eyes found her standing in the middle of a group of lively people, all reaching for her and hugging her. Penelope's voice did not match the face of the stern-looking Turk who approached him at _Grey Haus_ , though. She was vastly transformed.  
Vincent slid through the crowds of people and settled into the corner of a makeshift bar against a shop wall. He furrowed his brow as he watched his dinner companion.  
She had exchanged her Turk uniform, all but the sunglasses, for traditional Harvest garb: a sleeveless beige cotton shirt that showed off arms more muscular than he anticipated, and white cotton pants. She was lean, but clearly strong. Her top laced up her left side with sheer white ribbon, and through this ribbon he could make out a black tattoo that started below her beltline and scaled her back. She also had two indistinguishable tribal-esque lines that ran the length of each of her triceps.  
"I'm glad she's back. I've been so nervous about her for the last few days, with all the trouble Shinra's been having," a woman further up the bar said to a young man. Both were fully decked out in Harvest linens and red flowers.  
"Well, this gives us one more thing to celebrate! Drinks for everyone, barkeep! One round on me!" the young man shouted. All of the bar patrons cheered, even though all the drinks were free for the festival anyway.  
Vincent was handed a syrupy orange concoction, swirling with red lines.  
"To Ms. Marx!" the young man toasted.  
"To Marx," the crowd around the bar shouted back, despite half of them whispering amongst themselves, "Who?"  
Vincent raised the glass to his lips in unison with the bar goers, and just as he began to down the sweet drink, Penelope turned her head in appreciation toward the cheer at the bar.  
He sank further back into his corner as she approached this crowd.  
"Welcome home!" the bartender called over the music.  
She smiled in response and saluted the older man behind the bar. With the same hand, she then tucked her long brown hair behind her ear. It was wild in the breeze, flowing over her shoulders and glittering in the setting sun. She had small red and white flowers cascading from behind her left ear. Vincent subtly let his eyes wander from her lens-hidden eyes to her waist, where three strings of red flowers served as a decorative belt around her breezy white pants.   
"One night only! Who can I dance with around here?" she asked over the crowd. Three young men leaped from their bar stools and flanked her. The sound of her genuinely delighted laugh crept into Vincent as warmth. Hiding in the shadow of a wooden awning, he felt safe to watch her, and found that he could not turn his eyes away.

There was only a glimpse of sun left over the canyon as an announcement was made through a megaphone.

"As the sun bids its final farewell to this season, please, find your way to a fire and join us in thanking it for our health, our happiness, our warmth, and our spirit! Dance, people of Cosmo, in thanks for another year of life!"

He had no time to find the emcee giving these instructions before he was roughly dragged from his corner seat out into the open of the village. A tall woman covered in flowers held his wrist, and he felt relieved that she had grabbed his right one. She let go of him as they approached the central bonfire and disappeared to dance with a more responsive partner. Across the fire he spotted Penelope dancing with two young women, both visibly younger, one bright blond, one with hair the color of Nanaki. She had no trouble keeping up with the two girls who reminded Vincent of Yuffie.

He let the dancing people push past and knock into him as he watched Penelope. She spun in circles with her arms wide open, laughing wholeheartedly with her friends. At the command of the unseen emcee, she grabbed onto redhead and planted an emphatic kiss on her cheek. Vincent had no time to hide before he was grabbed by an older woman who smelled heavily of the sweet orange liquor. She planted a sticky kiss on his pale cheek and meandered away cheering.

As he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand the music started to quiet and people started heading back to their seats. Penelope's companion pointed to her own eyes and shouted, "How you gonna see with those things when the sun goes down?!”

Vincent found his seat at the bar and settled in again. Drinks, music, good cheer. This was not his norm, yet he was appreciative that Penelope had led him here, whether she intended to or not.

He ordered another orange concoction as it seemed to be the Harvest special, and he let his mind wander. Cosmo was a quiet town, full of spiritualists and students of the planet. He found it hard to believe such a peaceful village could be so wild in their celebration and yet felt somehow comfortable in the wild atmosphere. The people were kind, genuinely wanting one another to enjoy the night. 

  
The sun was gone, and a fresh wildness had rolled in. The bar became a far more central point. Uneasy with the increased attention he had started to receive, Vincent slipped away from the bar and resettled on the stairs to the inn, where he could better view the festivities.  
Young men rode the waves of the crowd's uplifted arms around the central fire. Around a small fire by the main entrance older villagers exchanged memories of Harvest Festivals past while sharing a decorative pipe. The sound of a heavy sigh caused him to tune in to their conversation, even while his eyes were trained on the crowd.

“I don’t suppose you’ve told her yet.”

“I know she’s been looking for them. I can tell. But it’ll break her heart.”

“I’ve heard talks about what could be coming. I’m sure she has, too. She’ll want to see them again. Maybe one last—”

“It’s best we don’t talk like that. We’ll just have to find a way to break it to her gently so that she can still enjoy herself. We’re all sad. But that’s not what tonight is about.”

Vincent raised his head at the sound of excited screams and saw Penelope hoisted up a muscular man's shoulders. A crowd was shifting its center from a bonfire to this glowing woman, now nine feet tall. The crowd was chanting emphatically around her, trying to persuade her to commit some act to which she adamantly refused.  
"I'll kill someone! I haven't done that in years!" she yelled out at someone in the crowd. Her sunglasses were glowing with the reflection of the ceremonious fires.  
"For Gaia! For the Harvest!" someone replied in a persuasive holler.  
An older woman by the bar was wrapping a long wooden stick with a white fabric. She handed it to the bartender, who returned it soaking with a clear and, Vincent supposed flammable, liquor. The woman danced over to the center fire and lit her torch triumphantly. The crowd around Penelope buzzed with excitement. Penelope was shaking her head while baring her teeth in a half-threatening smile.  
Vincent stood and moved toward the crowd, interested in the imminent feat.  
The old woman passed the torch through the crowd. Each person that touched it whispered emphatically at the flame. Penelope's blond friend forced a bottle of red liquid into her hand.  
"She used to do this every year for us," said an old man who had stepped up to Vincent's side, still a safe distance from the wild crowd.  
"What is ‘this’?" he asked in return.  
"Well, everyone that touches the torch puts his sorrow into the flame. For many of us, it is the passing of Bugenhagen this year. Once the torch makes it up to her, she blows the flame into the sky, sending all the sorrow and anger away from our village. This is truly a treat. She hasn't been here for the last six Harvests. There is much sorrow to be sent away."  
"Marx?" Vincent asked as he watched the torch pass from villager to villager.  
"Yes, up there." He pointed to Penelope. "She was young when she left. Most of the people here probably don't even know who she is; we've had such a turnover." The old man then made his way back to the entrance fire to sit and watch.  
Vincent felt drawn to the flame passing from hand to hand, as if something was calling him to touch the torch himself, to put some part of his own sorrows into that fire and have it lifted away. 

But he simply wasn’t superstitious enough to weave through the crowd and touch the fire.

Penelope took the torch from a frail-looking woman with white hair. A second man approached and nodded to the one holding her on his shoulders. Together, they raised her from sitting to standing with one foot on each man's shoulder, their large hands supporting her legs. Vincent felt a striking rush of warmth as her laughter quieted and she raised the torch to eye level, staring into its flickering light for a long breath, all the while balanced on two strong shoulders. Finally, she spoke.  
"For you, Gaia. For the Harvest. For Bugenhagen," she said, barely audible above the crowd. At Bugenhagen's name, the crowd quieted enough to hear howls coming from the top of the canyon. Vincent knew Nanaki was spending the night with his father, and nodded in agreement with his howl for his grandfather.

She whispered something else, something too quiet for any ear to catch, and try as he might, he knew he was misreading her lips. 

  
She then lowered the torch and raised the glass bottle to her mouth. Her head leaned far back before she raised it again. And as easily as she’d waltzed into his evening, she extended the torch and breathed fire.  
The flame exploded outward. Streaks of blue light sparkled through the fire and up into the air. The crowd gazed at the sight; the blaze seemed endless. Finally, it slowed, and flickered out into smoke, the torch spent. She smiled and turned her back to the crowd. Everyone raised their arms simultaneously and welcomed her body, letting her ride atop their appreciative hands.

According to the emcee, there was an hour left before midnight. Vincent did not know what significance midnight held for the festival, but he was willing to bet it would only get wilder, judging by Penelope’s remarks at the restaurant only five hours before.  
He had been passed several glasses of the sweet orange liquid that seemed to be fueling much of the night's excitement, and by this point, was feeling a looseness in his muscles that he had not felt in years. His senses were still sharp, but as he'd slipped back into his more comfortable place at the corner of the bar, he was no longer making the determined attempt to hide. This lax posture caught up with him quickly.  
"This is better, isn't it?" a somewhat hoarse feminine voice whispered directly into his ear, warm breath causing his hair to tickle his neck.  
Knowing the jig was up, he turned to face her, and failed to hide his surprise. The aviators were gone, and she stared back with lavender irises that deepened into violet at the edges. They glowed with mischief and something unreadable, not unlike their owner.  
"You knew I'd come?" he asked, golden claw no longer in hiding, and gripping a glass of the orange sweetness.  
She smirked and hopped up onto the bar stool next to his. "No. But, I knew you had no family, limited friends, and had been kicked off the ship for the night. I'd hoped you weren't going back to that mansion, and we both know you have no home in Midgar. Even Juno would have kicked you out eventually," she replied with a practiced confidence.  
"You seem to be quite the hero around here," he remarked, as two men spent a moment too long glancing at her in passing.  
She laughed. "Please. Few of these people actually know who I am. Some of the elders remember me. My close friends, most of whom are gone, have missed me. Everyone else is just high on the Harvest."  
"And this," he said, tapping a pointed gold finger against his glass.  
" _This_ ," she started, in a smooth, knowing voice, "is poison. Don't get me wrong, it's delicious, but the sweetness will kill you." She raised her arm to the bartender, who slid a thin bottle of clear liquor down the bar to her. " _This,_ on the other hand, is liquefied diamonds. It's amazing." She raised the bottle to her lips, ignoring the glass that had been passed down to her for just such a purpose. As she lowered it, her eyes widened. "How rude of me! Here," she said, passing the bottle to Vincent.  
He raised an eyebrow. At her encouraging nod, however, he tried a swallow. It was shockingly cool as it passed through his throat. As he exhaled, however, he half expected flames of his own.  
"Right?" she said, taking the bottle back. "So, this is your festival getup, huh?" she joked. "You insult our sun with this." She began untangling her flower belts.  
A woman sitting near them overheard, and in agreement, took off her own white flower necklace and placed it around Vincent's neck. She sloppily assaulted his cheek with her mouth. "Much better," the stranger slurred, as he wiped his face for the second time.  
"Lucky you," Penelope noted, raising her eyebrows as the woman stumbled away. "You've been blessed."  
"That's not what it feels like," he replied.  
"Ha! A joke! It's working!" she cried, holding up her treasured bottle. She then removed one of her own flowered belts and draped it over his shoulder, around the back of his neck. "You don't need skill. Nor determination. Nor intelligence. What shall _I_ bless you with, friend?" she asked, gently placing a hand on each of his shoulders.  
Unaccustomed to the touch, he struggled to keep from pulling away. "Survival would be nice."  
"Wise. Then, Vincent Roger Valentine…that is your middle name, right?”

He wanted to laugh. “It is not.”

“We’ll circle back to that,” she replied, waving off the guess. “Vincent…Valentine,” she began, rolling her wrist through an absent middle name, “I bless you with the gift of survival." She placed her lips against his forehead.  
Defenses weakened by the volume of spirits he’d consumed, he found himself leaning just slightly into the touch of her lips. She smiled against his skin, then pulled away.  
"Stay here," she commanded, then vanished into the crowd.  
He searched the faces for hers, then slipped his fingers around her prized bottle. Assured she would not catch him, he took a longer swallow of the liquid fire.  
She returned moments later with a small plastic jar in her hand and without speaking, commanded him to follow her back to the inn.

"You're staying?" she said, once inside the quieter lobby of the inn.  
"I am."  
"Well, how could you not?" she replied humorously. "This place is going to get crazy in a minute. Everyone comes indoors for half an hour before midnight. You know, to prepare."

"I _don't_ know. What else could possibly happen?" he inquired head nearly swimming with the entirely foreign experience.

This made her laugh even louder. "Midnight! The season change. The moon change?"

He shook his head.

"Oh, lucky you. Lucky, lucky,” she responded vaguely. “Do you have a room?”

He narrowed his eyes and she rolled hers just before slinging her arm around his shoulder.

They sat on the double bed across from each other, a smile fighting for dominance on her face.

"Are you going to continue in this, this...shadow?" she asked, gesturing toward his clothes.

"I am." He answered, stiffening as she became more aggressive in her attempt to unbutton his collar. With a gentle swipe, he refused her prying hands.

"Alright. But you're carrying everything with you into the new season if you do. You have a chance to start fresh, to be cleansed. Tonight," she persisted, opening the jar.

The idea was welcoming: to restart, to be pure. He had learned much about himself in the past few weeks, and felt drawn to the chance to renew.

More superstition.

"I'm okay."

"Hmph. Liar," she called him out. "Well, what will you have? War paint? Tribal markings?"

He watched as she covered her left arm in a thin layer of white cream. The jar was divided into five small sections of white, blue, red, black, and purple.

"You can be whatever you want. We're virtually unrecognizable out there," explained, dragging her fingernails through the gel, scraping it away in claw-mark designs. "The moon changes, and we light in our old bodies. As the moon fades into the first dawn, our old bodies fade into our new. So on and so on..." she drawled while painting her arm.

Several minutes later, she returned from the bathroom and stood, finished, in front of him. The paint was too translucent for him to make out most of her designs.

"I've got it. It's perfect," she stated in matter-of-fact tone. "May I?" she requested, reaching her fingers toward his face.

He bristled and turned his head slightly.

"Vincent. What's gone wrong tonight? Exhale," she pleaded.

He sighed and brushed his hair out of his face.

She was quick but detailed in her work. He struggled again to sit still against her fingers, sighing and occasionally grunting in frustration. While she watched her work intently, he succumbed to his staring. Her eyes glowed even in the dim light of the room. She smirked, pleased with her work, and met his gaze.

"You're welcome," she joked, hopping off the bed to look out the window. "The fires are out. It's almost time. Come on," she said, heading for the door.

"You left these," he said before she was gone, holding up the multiple strands of flowers she'd removed to work.

"Trust me, they won't belong."

.

They passed through the hallways of the inn in quiet reverence for the occasion, even if Vincent did not fully grasp its weight. He admitted to himself that this woman amused him, continuously surprised him, and he privately decided that this wild, primal festival made for a potentially perfect end to a life that made little sense to begin with. His sheer amusement kept him from the grip of regret, just out of sorrow’s reach.

As the main entrance came into sight, a hand reached out from the front desk and patted Penelope’s arm. She startled and stopped, coming face to face with an elder, one whom Vincent had overheard earlier in the evening. The deep lines in her face spoke of sorry news.

“Pen—Penelope, can I talk to you?”

Penelope looked to Vincent, and he thought he could see the concern in her face. 

“I’ll meet you right outside. Feel free to wander; I can find you.”

He nodded and left the building, surveying the darkened collection of bodies gathered back down on the dirt. He stepped away from the door, but his heightened senses mixed with the hush fallen over the town could not offer her the privacy he intended. Instead, he caught bits and pieces of a brief conversation from his place on the grand clay stairs.

“I’m sorry, darling…”

“…I know it was a lot to hope…”

“They wanted to be here. Their ferry was rerouted to accommodate refugees, and…”

“…I wish I could…”

“I know. I will tell them that you…”

“Thank you.”

“They love you, darling. And you have so much love in you still. That city did not…”

A laugh, a sigh. “Not for lack of trying.”

“Use it, darling. Don’t let it harden inside of you, Aria. Use it.”

He stood and moved down several steps more, the snippets too intimate for him to want to hear. There were enough questions going unanswered in his world. 

The masses of people standing around the extinguished fires were amazingly silent. He watched in uncertain anticipation until his tension was shattered by the grip of a hand around his metallic wrist. 

Penelope had caught up to him as promised, and she pulled him into the center of the quiet crowd, handing him a glass bottle once they'd settled into a spot. He took a long pull from the bottle and mentally surrendered to this night. It had taken him remarkably far from his dreary expectations, and with her holding his golden claw firmly in her hand, he decided to trust it. Tomorrow, he decided, he would return to what he knew.

The moon slid behind dark clouds and the crowd began to buzz. When it finally emerged again, it sent a wave of light pouring over the crowd, illuminating their painted bodies. The festival began anew as the crowd roared with celebration.

Vincent's breath escaped him at the sight of the bodies glowing around him. He'd seen nothing like it. As his eyes returned to her, he flinched. Most had gone with distinct patterns painted symmetrically over their bodies, or playful fairies and animal faces over their own.

Penelope’s left arm appeared sliced by an animal. Her right had bullet holes starring its surface. Her cheekbones were highlighted in white to give shape to her face, and she'd drawn thin red tally marks for her eyebrows. He counted twenty-four. The women around them had red-painted lips; she instead chosen blue, draining life from her appearance. The only overtly feminine touch she'd added was to her eyes, where purple wings extended from the outer corners, and points formed at the inner corners. She was frightening. Across her neck was a vivid slash of red paint, jagged letters printed above and below the wound: _Shinra Was Here._

There seemed little in the way of subtext. In a way, he appreciated that.

She led him a few steps back toward the inn and shoved him in front a metal wall that had been arranged for the villagers to admire their handiwork.

In the moonlight, his neck glowed red and white with painted flames that licked up his jawline. The rest of his face made even him uneasy: it had decayed into a white skull. His cheeks were hollowed out with black, like his eyes, mouth, and nose. He was speechless at her striking attention to detail, and noticed that people were not standing as close to him as they had been earlier in the evening.

“We are faces of death. Monsters created by those who did not know our strength. They’ve had reins on us, you know. Our hatred, our oaths of vengeance…all means of their control. Let’s cut them. Let the moon cut us loose. Let it finally give us our freedom.”

In the moonlight, the atmosphere of the festival had taken a turn. No longer were the villagers innocently dancing to old folk songs around bonfires and telling tales of the days of old. The elders had disappeared and been replaced with a younger generation. The air was electrified with a charge Vincent had only experienced once before, as a teenager, in an underground nightclub. These people were a new kind of wild, and the grounds were quickly buzzing with sexual tension.

The music had changed from jigs to tribal, percussion-heavy songs. He could not tell when one song began and another ended.

"This is a new look," he heard a gruff voice speak loudly. When he turned to the source, he found a shorter man sliding his arms around Penelope's waist from behind. "Most of these girls are so desperate to be looked at on this night. What's your story?" he asked, poorly hiding his interest in the gap in the side of her shirt.

"I've got so many…" she replied smoothly, slipping out of his arms just as easily and gliding out of his reach, leaving Vincent behind.

The same move was soon made on him. Two slender arms wrapped around his stomach and he very nearly took the perpetrator to the ground before remembering where he was.

"I've been watching you, ya know," a young voice purred. "You're Penelope’s brother, right?"

He raised an eyebrow at this misconception. "No,” he replied, still not sure how to remove his body from the woman's grasp without hurting her.

"Oh. Wishful thinking, I suppose. I mean, I see how you're watching her. But, if you want," she said, far less suave than she thought, "you can watch me, instead." She stepped around in front of him and he smirked at her makeup, purple designs crossing down her neck and into the front of her shirt, disappearing beneath thin cotton.

"I'm flattered," he started, as he separated her arms from his waist, "but I must decline."

Instead of navigating the wild crowd, he simply stepped away, back to the bar, which now glowed with hanging lanterns and the same paint that covered their bodies. The bartender handed him another glass of the Harvest special.

_This is poison._

He took his chances.

Not long after he finished half of the drink, another pair of arms snaked around his shoulders. He instantly recognized the painted claw marks and helplessly leaned back against Penelope’s chest.  
"Are you finally relaxing? And it only took, what, six hours? Or is this just exhaustion?" she spoke into his ear.  
He grunted a laugh at the concept of exhaustion. He'd not felt it since his reawakening months ago. His body was too far from human for it.

“I can hear quite well, you know,” he confessed. She waited for a punchline, humming her understanding at his silence. He continued, circling his fingertip around the edge of the glass on the bar.

“I heard that woman at the inn call you by a different name.”

Penelope was still for a long while, seemingly thinking over her options. He was patient and allowed her arms to linger on his shoulders as she prepared a response. It was surprisingly benign and without a hint of defensiveness.

“So you did.”

“A nickname?”

He knew he was giving her an out, but surprisingly, she chose not to take it.

“No. My birth name.”

"Why 'Penelope,’ then?" he asked, surprising himself with the extent of his questioning.

She sighed, and he caught a trace of her breath against his neck. 

“Long story. It was just safer to have another name when I went to work for Shinra. An attempt at a barrier between them and my real identity. As if it mattered.”  
He responded smoothly: "Seems like a smart thing to do.”  
She smiled against him. "It complements all the stupid things I’ve done.”  
He didn’t believe her, and instead, blurted out, "You were a Legend."  
"Oh, that's also a story for another time," she brushed off the comment and slipped her arms out from under his. "I know you have to sleep at some point, or at least rest," she queried, hoping he would deny the accusation.  
"You don't know me as well as you thought," he responded.  
She raised her hand once more to the bartender. A minute later she had shoved a black shot glass into his hand and held onto one of her own for dear life. "To...?" she began a toast.  
"Survival," he finished.  
"Survival," she agreed, and they downed the fiery liquid together.

Three painful shots later, she had dragged Vincent back into the crowd. He swayed less to the music and more to remain upright and focused on her rhythmic movement. One large fire had started again in the center of the grounds, around which villagers were dancing for light and warmth. Penelope had forced their way right to the edge of the fire and surrendered to the music while Vincent watched, transfixed.  
She threw her arms over her head and swayed her hips to the tribal rhythms. Some were singing, but she did not know this song well. Her eyes had closed minutes ago and did not open again until a drunk dancer had knocked Vincent directly into her.  
He grabbed her arms to steady them and felt a shiver cross her body. Immediately, he pulled his left hand away. She grabbed it back before he could react and placed it on her side, repositioning his right hand to slide down her left side. He watched intently as his fingers lightly caught in the lace of her shirt.  
A slower, simple song started on a guitar, and several villagers joined in singing to one another, "I saw you standing in the corner, on the edge of a burning light!"  
A smile broke out across Penelope's face and she pulled her new dance partner closer. Despite the suddenly uncountable drinks, his body was rigid against hers. She squeezed his shoulders then slid her hands up into his hair. It was his turn to shiver.  
"Exhale," she reminded him.  
"We really don't know one another," he started to protest. She would not hear it.  
"What's to know? I'm not asking you to marry me. I just want to dance with you. Whether you know it or not, we’re working in parallel here, and I think this night will serve us well," she explained. He suddenly wanted to question everything she had to say about ‘this night,' but reminded himself that he had chosen to give in to it.  
"Don't fight it any longer. Come to me again in the cold, cold night," she sang into his ear with a smile as they swayed side to side gently to an easy beat.

In a sea of neon smiles, two wicked faces hung close together, letting themselves be warmed by a sense of peace with which neither seemed particularly familiar. It carried them through song after song, their eyes drifting closed and drawing open to find the other looking back, one openly smiling and the other merely grinning at being caught. It was through this gentle rhythmic swaying, body bound to a stranger, that he developed a sliver of belief in some sort of lunar purity. Something had lightened from him, and he could breathe a bit easier.

Several songs and dances later, Penelope lifted her head from Vincent's chest and looked questioningly into his burgundy eyes.  
"Did it work?” she asked.  
He nodded, as he had grown weary of others bumping into him when she was not looking.  
She nodded in agreement and began to lead him back toward the inn. Also weary of being dragged, Vincent pulled her back, nearly causing her to lose her balance as he decided that they should walk alongside one another. 

"In parallel," he reminded her. She raised her tally mark eyebrows and nodded.


	3. Collectors

Once back in the comfort of artificial light, much of Penelope's paint was invisible again. Vincent was not as lucky. He flinched upon a looking in the mirror and seeing his disheveled appearance mixed with Penelope's frightening work of art on his face.  
"I need to shower," he said mostly to himself. No response.  
Upon glancing back out into the bedroom from the bathroom, he found Penelope passed out directly in the center of the bed. He shook his head and smirked at her speedy departure from consciousness. After approaching cautiously and receiving no response, Vincent proceeded to remove her white shoes. They were mostly thick fabric, and slid off easily. Underneath he discovered a small tattoo of a wing on the outside of each of her ankles.  
"Mercury..." he mused. He could not help but wonder what other markings she had, but he brushed the thought aside and headed back to the bathroom.

Steam filled the small room quickly. He absentmindedly let the water run as he began to undress. He reached for his headband and upon touching his own skin, the image of Penelope's lips touching him there flashed into his affected mind. Having let a sense of guilt slip away and into a bonfire, he closed his eyes and let the image stay.  
Next, he began to unclasp the buttons at the top of his thick shirt. Within seconds, Penelope's fingers were touching him again, as they had reached for him before. They moved down his chest, button by button, barely grazing the skin underneath. He replayed the first laugh he'd heard from her, when she was surrounded by admirers, her skin glowing in the sun. The corners of his mouth twitched in response.  
A cool hand connected with his abdomen and memory gave way to imagination. With the slightly cocky smirk she donned so well, his image of Penelope slid the tips of her fingers into the waist of his military pants. An overtly animalistic impulse wished her to kneel, but he already knew her too well. She knelt for no man.

The heavy steam began to fill his lungs and he was pulled from his visions. After lowering the water temperature, he discarded the remainder of his clothing as thoughtlessly as possible and stepped into the shower.

The water was now cool on his skin as he let it spray directly onto his face. Dark paint came down in streams from his neck and colored the water as it drained. He leaned against the side wall of the shower and kept his eyes closed.

His mind carried him back to his companions. They would all reunite the following afternoon after spending time with their loved ones in comforting familiarity. He had set himself apart again, spending his free night in a world he had not known existed with a woman he'd never met. It was so terribly unlike him that he wanted to laugh. The end of the world had brought out a sort of delirium.

Believing most of the paint to be rinsed away, he warmed the water again to the point of steaming. Thanks to his physical alterations, his normal body temperature had lowered four degrees and he was almost always cold. He dipped the rest of his head into the stream and let his hair be soaked, sticking to his neck and back.

After lathering and rinsing his entire body twice, this being the first shower he had not been rushed through in a long time, he again stood motionless in the hot water. The image of the villagers' bodies lighting up under the vibrant moon flashed on repeat in his mind. Then the dancing by the fire. Then Penelope, as she jumped through the flames with a friend. Then her wild hair as she spun in circles under a trance of the tribal music. Something stirred in him at the sight, and he found himself authentically hoping she would be safe from the wrath of Shinra, even if her former ranking warned that there were likely few who could harm her if they tried.

"There will be no hot water left for the rest of the town," he heard, and he snapped out of his memory.

"You're awake," he half-asked, unsure of what to say in this position.

"I am. And I'm starving. I was thinking of sneaking down to the grill and bringing something back," said Penelope, in a semi-questioning tone.

"I'm fine," he answered.

No response. She had left.

He turned off the water and stepped out. Once dry, he picked up his black clothing and inhaled. It smelled of battle, alcohol, gunpowder, perfume. His head involuntarily turned from the garment for fresher air. With painfully limited options, he wrapped his waist in a towel, and cautiously opened the bathroom door. Upon confirming Penelope's absence, he grabbed the Harvest clothing that had been gifted by the innkeeper and dressed himself.

When she returned, Vincent had opened the glass door to the tiny patio and sat atop the wide brick half-wall, watching the villagers below. On the rail across from him hung his black clothes, drying.

"Wow. What kind of change of heart did I miss?" she asked, gesturing to his significantly brighter outfit.

He shook his head at her comment and did not notice her looking him up and down.

Penelope perched atop the half-wall across from him, the damp clothes between them. She pulled apart a small loaf of dark bread and took a bite.

"Your family is not here?" he asked, his curiosity about her earlier encounter getting the better of him.

"Ah, my family. No. They were supposed to come, but...the ferry stopped operating. The captain walked off, apparently. Something about a big rock in the sky…” The joke could not cover the tinge of sadness in her voice.

"You said you stayed with Shinra for them. To help them?”

She nodded thoughtfully. "I did. There was a little drama when I was younger, and we needed…stability. I was a natural, apparently, so I figured I should go where my talents take me. It kept my parents from having to do more dangerous work.”

“More dangerous than being a Turk in the last ten years?”

She laughed to herself. “Good point. Can I tell you something without being judged?”

He said nothing, and she shook her head. 

“I enjoyed it. I know I didn’t walk away with particularly clean hands, but I still enjoyed the work most of the time. I liked feeling like I had some kind of influence on…I don’t know. Every once in a while, it was nice to feel like I had a seat at the table, if that makes sense. I didn’t, mind you, but I felt like I did.”

She adjusted her weight on the banister and nearly slid off the outer edge. To save herself, she fell backward onto the wooden patio and landed on her back. Clearly not yet sobered from the evening's celebration, she struggled to catch the breath that had been knocked out of her through hysterical laughter. Vincent could not help but grin as he lowered himself gracefully to the patio, and outstretched his hand to help her stand.

Penelope took his hand in hers and tightened her grip. Before he realized her intent, she snaked her other hand around the back of his left knee and pulled hard enough to bring him down.

On his knees, and several feet closer to the woman, he saw the striking threat that she was. As she laughed, he noticed her sharp canines as they glinted in the dark. Her arms flexed strong, defined muscles. Her strength was not delicate and hidden, as was Tifa and Yuffie's, but blatant. Her laugh was guttural, animalistic. He could only imagine how she looked in action, despite her most fearsome features being tamed and hidden behind that classic blue suit. Under the moonlight her paint still shone faintly. He could see both her natural features and the artificial ones she'd added to herself, and the combination sent a thrill through his spine.

"You're staring," she noted, pulling him back into the moment.

"Sorry," he said, starting to stand. She pulled him back toward the floor.

"It's okay. I am, too." He shifted uncomfortably at the idea of anyone paying him too much attention. She noticed.

"Stop being so hard on yourself," she half-whispered. Her lavender eyes glowed against her fair skin, drawing him in to her. "You're an amazing creature, you know. Look at what you've been through. At what you've seen. And what you're about to... _willingly_ walk into. And you're still so...human."

He broke the mutual gaze to glance at his left arm. "That's not quite the word I would—"

"It's exactly the right word," she cut him off, placing a finger over his lips. "I've read a lot about you, and I’ve heard a lot from Reeve. I admire you. And I envy you."

"Envy?"

She nodded from the floor. "Of course! Whatever is going to happen in that crater, _you_ get to be there, right up front, pulling the trigger. The rest of us get to hope and pray. You get to fight."

Vincent met her gaze once more, just in time to be pulled off balance by the collar of his thin shirt. He landed, just as she intended, on top of her, face to face.

"Exhale," she commanded. At this, she wound her fingers through his hair and pulled him into a kiss far deeper than what he was prepared for.

His senses caught fire. He inhaled sharply, breathing in her unique scent of citrus, bonfire smoke, and sweat. His ears caught an involuntary groan from deep in her throat that made him push deeper into the kiss. The hairs on the back of his neck raised as she dragged her nails against his scalp, gently pulling at his still-damp hair. Penelope's sharp teeth caught his lower lip and he unsuccessfully held back a moan as she ran her tongue across it.

His heart seemed to have stopped, and it scrambled to catch up to his body when she finally broke away. Before he could process what had happened, she was assaulting him with kisses. Her lips trailed his left jawline, then cheekbone, then temple. With her mouth this close to his ear, he tuned in to her shallow breathing and felt a warmth in his stomach that could not compare to all of the night's drinks. Her arms circled his neck and held him down to her, though at this point, he was not pulling away.

Penelope turned her head slightly and pressed her lips against the sensitive skin under his ear. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of the inn's shampoo in his hair. Her hands moved from his hair to his neck, then slid halfway down his back and onto his sides.

"You're freezing," she stated. "Are you always this cold?"

He sighed and dropped his head. "Yes."

At this, she maneuvered her body out from under his and stood in the doorway to the room. "You should get in bed. You have four hours until sunrise."

As she headed for the bathroom, Vincent pulled himself from the ground and stood at the center of the balcony, facing her. "Are you leaving?"

When she turned to look back, she had raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," he answered before he could stop to think.

"Get in bed. I need to wash this paint off."

Vincent slid under the covers with a knot of anticipation in his stomach. Penelope's actions had led in a specific direction, then derailed on a whim. He wondered if his cold skin had averted her. It seemed unlikely, based on her admission of admiration. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to imagining the tattoos on her body. It was an indulgent evening, and his foggy brain was granting rare permission to enjoy his own thoughts.

These thoughts were only interrupted once the bathroom door unlatched again. The room was lit solely by a small, dim table lamp on the nightstand. When she stepped out into that yellow light, Vincent opened his eyes and stopped breathing at the sight.

Penelope had removed her thin, dusty clothing. In its place, she wore a white fabric band across her chest and sleek white shorts. Her hair was loosely braided, several wavy strands slipping over her shoulders. Her face was clean of all makeup, yet her purple eyes still blazed against dark lashes.

Vincent propped himself up on his left arm and absorbed as much of her as he could. A series of unreadable lines spiraled around her right thigh in what appeared to be Ancient symbols. She had an easily recognizable knife scar on her right side, a scar from a bullet on her right shoulder. The tattoo that scaled her back was a phoenix, its tail feathers dipping down onto her left thigh, the tips of its wings stretching up to the base of her neck.

"You're decorated," he noted.

She grinned and laughed quietly. "I’m a collector," she started, sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned her left arm to display the tribal lines on the back. "These were given to me by a shaman in Wutai. He told me they would ensure I made it to 'the other side' safely when it was my time. I outran the Midgar Zolom once, which earned me my wings," she explained, pointing to her ankles. "This is an Ancient prayer, supposedly connecting me to the planet. I spent a month in the Forgotten City when I was twenty five. If for any reason I couldn't be in Cosmo, I would be there. I learned so much from that place..." she trailed off, her mind clearly flooded with memories.

"You've been shot?" he asked, nodding at her scars.

“Oh, maybe once or twice," she replied, laughing. "Once in the shoulder, which went through. I was grazed in the side, in the leg, on the arm. I have a bullet still inside my chest, somewhere. A rookie used too many Cures on me, healing the wound closed before we made it back to the hospital for surgery. I was stabbed in the slums, but _I just won't die._ Hence," she turned, showing off her large phoenix.

After a moment of reflection, she caught his gaze again. "So, you've seen me," she said, with obvious implication. "Think you can even compare?"

He flexed his metal fingers subtly.

"Come on. That’s cheating,” she said, lightly slapping the claw with the back of her hand. 

“Who are you hiding from?" she asked, sensing his discomfort. She climbed across the bed. He allowed her to push him back into a lying position and straddle his hips.

"My marks are not as beautiful as yours," he warned her, surprising himself with his choice of adjective.

"I'll be the judge of that," she said, catching his shirt with her thumbs and sliding her hands and the shirt up his sides. He shivered at the touch of her warm skin. He raised his chest slightly to allow her to remove the shirt completely.

Everything was vivid against his white skin. She fell silent and took in the sight of him.

A clear gunshot scar was most prominent on the left side of his chest. Sloppy surgical incision scars ran from his navel to the base of his neck, with four thin branches on each side, reaching six inches in both directions. Only now did she notice the slight discoloration of the skin above his metal arm, where it had been attached. A thick, gnarled scar ran the length of his shoulder and bicep, ending at metal.  
As she traced the lines, she sensed the anxiety rattling through him. His breathing had deepened, and he refused to make eye contact.  
"No one has seen this?" she asked.  
"No one still living," he replied quietly.  
At this she stretched across the bed and turned the lamp off, returning to her position on top of him in the dark. She repositioned herself farther down his legs and lowered her body onto his, her warm chest resting on his cool stomach, her head on his chest. He sighed heavily as she wrapped her arms around his back and held him tightly.

When she finally spoke, her voice vibrated against his skin.

“Can I ask you a favor, Vincent Valentine?”

“You can,” he answered, eyes already drifting closed. He felt as if she’d cast a spell on him, draining all the aches, the tension, and the fear from his body, allowing him to float in a state of true calm.

She was quiet a long while, seemingly working hard to get the words out.

“Make sure I see my family again. I want to tell them about you.”

He sighed and wrestled with the request, deciding that if he should not be able to fulfil it, at least he would not have to see the disappointment in her face. 

He made the vow not with words, but with the gentle stroke of his hand over her hair. He felt her smile against his chest, and for the first time in the weeks since he had joined Cloud's crusade, Vincent peacefully drifted into sleep.

Five hours later, he awoke to a knocking on the door. His requested taxi had arrived, according to the innkeeper in the hallway. Vincent sat up and scanned the room. Penelope was gone. He was not surprised.

Once dressed in his own clothing, he walked toward the door, noticing a small piece of paper on the dresser. On it was a red flower from the festivities and written was their shared toast from the night before: "To Survival."

He folded the paper neatly and placed it in his pocket just before walking out of the room.


End file.
